The paper hive hung all November long,
a landmark of spherical woody pulp
uncovered by an old Autumn’s barrenness.
It was our story for days and weeks,
and then it fell, swept from its high limb
by wind or rain or hungry birds.
We watched it in the flickering sun
day by day, fluttering on the ground
as it tore and disappeared.
It was our story for days and weeks
until I couldn’t tell it anymore; we would
wait for Spring and find a new one.
Now our eyes scan and search
this rhythmless season, this unmetered verse,
for budding greens and papered homes,
for all the new places our stories will be grown.
I love the title!!! The repetition of “it was our story for days and weeks,” works well and gives the continuity of time passage. And “until I couldn’t tell it anymore” is fantastic. The waiting for spring to find a new hive and the searching through the “rhytmnless season, this unmetered verse” is lovely. A very succinct description of how we feel about winter at this time. I really, really like the ending and the search for “papered homes” and “all the new places our stories will be grown.” This is a wonderful piece. The stories being associated with the hanging hive that is knocked down and disintegrates is haunting in a way; the fluttering on the ground suggesting a helpless injured bird.This is such a good poem for this time of year and our search for early signs of spring. I enjoyed reading this a lot. Very fine work friend!!! You are back!!! Love and the light of spring your way…..
You are kind to invest this amount of effort into reading; thank you! After reading your comments I thought about how “papered homes” might speak to writing, to story, to poetry, to art on paper, where some of the deepest parts of us live…
Love and light to you. Thank you for the companionship along this writerly way